


The Eyes of the Mountain

by greygerbil



Category: Original Work
Genre: Clash of customs around wedding, Dom/sub, M/M, Power Dynamics, Secret Marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:08:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25514065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greygerbil/pseuds/greygerbil
Summary: General Imre and High Sage Walraven were not supposed to even speak to each other alone, much less meet up in the middle of the night.
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character, Standoffish But Skilled Male Leader of a Militia/His Secret Boyfriend
Comments: 5
Kudos: 79
Collections: Just Married Exchange 2020





	The Eyes of the Mountain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ficwriter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficwriter/gifts).



> The Dom/sub is somewhat undernegotiated due to lack of customs around it in medieval-ish fantasy time period, but fully consensual.

As Imre was halfway up the mountain path, he pulled the dark hood out of his face to look out over the valley. Had he stood here five years ago, he may have thought about how the river glittered beautifully in the moonlight, tried to find the houses just at the foot of the hill, stray farms of the small village he hailed from, and admired the sight of the city of Herzgraben at the other end of the valley, sitting between two arms of the river, lamps and torches shining all night like fireflies.

Nowadays, he wondered if the village guards were up and patrolling, if the lady of Herzgraben would finally make time to speak to him about the push towards Wildwald tomorrow, and if the rookies he’d left for Ronja to train on Grünfeld behind the mountains were currently getting drunk in a tavern or, hopefully, too tired to stand.

He hadn’t set out to become a leader of anyone. It wasn’t Imre’s fault the king of his home, Talberg, was an ineffective drunkard holed up in his castle hundreds of miles away, or that he’d been born and raised at the border, the first to be shoved under the thumb of the neighbouring kingdom of Falkenheim when they made their grab for power and land. When the knights of Falkenheim ahd burned down their crops and houses, Imre had picked up a blade because all his other belongings had gone up in flames and people had followed him because he’d been the only one who walked out of the smoke with a semblance of a plan. On that first push towards the border, they had collected some followers in every hovel, every town they had passed, harnessed desperation and anger. Gather enough furious peasant and the lords and ladies couldn’t help but deal with you one way or another and it just so happened that a good portion of them were in no mood for a Falkenheim intervention themselves and Imre had met up with them, too. He’d had a mob at first, then a troop, then an army.

He wasn’t qualified for this and no one had asked him to do it and he hadn’t even set out to get anything but some undefined idea of revenge when he’d started out. Still, he’d always been just arrogant enough to believe in himself and as the responsibilities piled up and gave him greater opportunities to act, he realised he was not going to give the reins away again and let someone else direct his future, that he believed in the vision he had for the people who trusted him.

Yet, as the beaten path up the mountain grew wilder under his feet and he turned his gaze upward, to the temples that laid in darkness but for the lanterns glimmering in unearthly colours by some trick of mummery or magic, he reminded himself that there were still many other winds that blew the ship he was trying to steer.

Imre led his steps away from the road right into the thick, summer-green underbrush and clambered up the steep hillside, thorns and branches tearing at his coat and his skin. As he came closer to the temples, he saw the statues of the gods looming among them. He took a moment to bow before Ebba, the protector of those who grew crops and raised animals, who used to be the goddess he’d prayed to every evening, and lower his head before Hedvika, the great mistress of war, who had as of late looked over him as he fought his battles. He had not come to visit either of them, though.

The temples of the Sages were not guarded, though Imre still made sure to stay in the shadows of the trees as he approached the central temple. It was a great, three-tiered structure built against the mountainside, thatched with reed and otherwise made entirely of wood, each beam carved in the shape of plants and the faces of gods and nymphs. He grasped on to a head and a handful of thick wooden ivy leaves and pulled himself up, climbing, and finally crawling into an open first story window.

He descended the stairs on quiet feet. In the great entrance hall of the temple stood High Sage Walraven, his arms folded behind his back. His long hair, dark but for the grey streaks, was pulled into a braid. As much as Imre was an example of the people of the valleys, Walraven was a mountain man, as each clan was described of old. Imre was short and broad in the shoulders, Walraven tall and willowy. They had the same olive skin and the same dark hair, but Walraven’s was straight and Imre’s wildly curled.

Of course, then came the details of Walraven’s appearance that were less characteristics of a people and simply individual markers: the sharp, beak-like nose, the honey-coloured eyes that looked into one’s soul, the high cheek-bones, all burned into Imre’s memory as the most handsome picture of a man he could think of. Even more singular, however, was the grace with which he moved, turning his head at the quiet sound of Imre’s boots scuffing on the earthen ground, and the aura of complete, calm authority which he projected even as he smiled at him in greeting.

“General Imre. You made it up here again.”

“High Sage. No hard work to escape notice coming here. It worries me we station no soldiers at the temples.”

“You know it wouldn’t be a good idea.”

“I do, and it worries me no less.”

They didn’t have soldiers here for the same reason that Imre snuck up in the dark of night – the Sages were supposed to be impartial, untouched by the politics of the world, as they were respected in Talberg and Falkenheim alike. They were not, of course, as they were people, and in fact High Sage Walraven, spiritual leader of the faith, had whispered in many ears and had turned the tide of public opinion in favour of Imre’s militia substantially. In return, Imre had conceded some points of his strategy to him. Each speaking of what the other had done for them could have sent the militia into pieces and the faith into crisis within the span of one conversation. They had the power to unmake each other and half the country alongside. It was perhaps an unking thought to have about the man he loved, but they were both realists. Walraven would have considered all of this often enough, too.

“You have enough to think about without letting idle fears plague you. Put it out of your mind and trust me that I have my ways to defend the Sages if necessary.”

“How good of the High Sage to try make me feel better with friendly lies,” Imre said gruffly.

“You would do well not to accuse me of such things, General,” Walraven said with a twinkle in his eye. “Who knows when I will turn these powers on you to prove myself?”

Imre scoffed, yet knelt before Walraven as was custom. Around them the pillars that held up the temple were made to look like the gods, supporting the ceiling just as they carried the sky with their strength, and looking sternly down on Imre. Walraven’s face fit in with them.

It was not custom that Walraven reached down to him, grasping his chin in a tight hold. Their meetings tended to start like this when Imre’s days had been long and draining and needed to not think of anything.

“How do you always know?” Imre asked quietly.

It was like Walraven could sense when he was at his lowest.

“You are good at deceiving the world, but are powerless to do the same for a lover.”

“That sounds dangerous,” Imre muttered.

Walraven hummed his agreement.

If Walraven had been the sort to go for low-hanging fruit, there was something else with which he could have discredited Imre entirely. Would people have believed the High Sage that the proud leader of their militia enjoyed to kneel? Imre tried to forget it most days and it was only Walraven whom he had ever allowed to share in such indiscretions. The fact was, Walraven would not have been lying about his urges. When he pushed this thumb between Imre’s lips and tilted his head up, Imre felt the blush creep up his neck and leaned into his touch, anyway, and at Walraven’s nod, he parted the folds of the Sage’s robes.

Imre always came back calmer out of the mountains. It was because of Walraven’s presence, conversation, wisdom, but this also did its part, little as he wanted to admit it. Thankfully, Walraven did not make him talk about it. Imre stroked him until he was hard and lowered his head over him, a firm hand grasping his hair as Walraven pushed Imre’s head down his cock, deeper, deeper, making him swallow him down until tears were stinging at the corners of his eyes. Imre’s hands rested on his own thighs, though he was painfully hard against the laced front of his leather breeches. Walraven had taught him well not to touch himself when he hadn’t been told to. The fact that Imre could have thrown Walraven over his shoulder and carried him into the woods and Walraven would have had little means to resist his superior strength was irrelevant; Imre was bound by his will.

When Walraven finished, Imre swallowed his seed and waited with baited breath as Walraven considered him and finally gave a sign with two fingers, an unspoken command. He did not touch Imre further than keeping his hand on his head, buried in the short curls, and urging him to spread his knees with a gentle nudge of his foot so Walraven would have a better view, but Imre needed little else. As he got himself off with his hand, his thoughts completely dissipated, his head empty of anything but feelings for once. He kept his eyes locked on Walraven’s as he came.

Walraven offered him a cloth from the folds of his robes to clean up. Imre wondered if he kept it there for these purposes alone as he made himself presentable again. He felt pleasantly exhausted and embarrassed at once.

“So, is this why you are here tonight?” Walraven asked playfully.

“Nonsense. I simply came to see you.”

“As you so often do now.”

“Is that criticism?” Imre snapped, pride smarting at the indication that perhaps he was showing too much attention, and fear flaring that Walraven was getting tired of him.

“No. You walk on cat’s feet for a man who likes to shout at soldiers and rattle his sword so much,” Walraven said with a hint of sarcasm. “But it does make me wonder how many more times I can get away with taking you under the eyes of the gods and not expect repercussions.”

Imre cast a look at the figures around them, momentarily soothed by Walraven’s words. “I’ve had that thought. Though I think they will punish me. Even the gods will forgive your silver tongue anything,” he said laconically. “I took the pleasures, so it’s fair I have to pay the price. Let them come.”

“Perhaps neither of us needs to suffer. If we closed the bond, our duty to the gods would be done and we would be free to be together in front of them as much as we please.”

“The bond? Marriage?” Imre asked, flabbergasted. “I cannot marry you. You won’t even allow me to put soldiers here. Besides, if we let people see we work together and by some miracle it wouldn’t cause chaos, you would become the hare in a hunt. I don’t just have friends, you know, and your undefended temple town won’t scare away mercenaries.”

“No one has to know – for now. The gods don’t ask us to shout these things from the mountaintops. In due time, we can pretend to have, by chance, grown closer after the end of the war. Your home is by this mountain, after all, so it’s not unreasonable that you would make pilgrimages.”

Imre stared at him. What a strange idea! And yet, his heart was jumping in his chest just like the hare he’d mentioned. Though Walraven had never suggested anything of the sort, Imre had secretly been afraid he found Imre’s urges as shameful as Imre often did; and past that, sometimes wondered how a man as learned as Walraven could see more in Imre than a block-headed soldier who needed to be kept on a leash that Walraven had decided to hold. Walraven had always been unreadable to Imre, whereas he knew that despite all his frowning and growling, a smart man like the High Sage would have Imre figured out like a children’s puzzle.

“Alright,” Imre said, almost provocatively, “I will marry you in front of the gods. We have a Sage right here, so this should not take long.”

He offered him his hands, as they would have to hold both for the ceremony, but Walraven shook his head.

“Not here. We have some older customs among the Sages, from when the spirits lived in the mountains among the people.”

Imre felt a shudder working its way up his spine. He respected the Sages and so did many, but _respect_ was the fitting word indeed – it included an aspect of fear. The Sages were in contact with a part of nature and the divine that was volatile and old as the weather, which could ruin your crops for the year in one bad night and sent the rivers out to the land to drown the people when it pleased.

But he wanted to marry the High Sage and he wanted to prove to him he was no coward, so he nodded his head.

Walraven led the way through the hall and from there down a narrow, dimly lit corridor Imre had never seen before. It ended at a door that was laid into a natural wall made of rock. He’d figured the temple had been built against the mountain to protect it from storms, not that parts of it laid inside the stone.

Walraven took a torch from the wall before he unlocked the door with a heavy iron key. Imre followed wordlessly into the cool tunnel. There were faces and bodies and plants carved into the rocks here just like in the wood outside, but they looked less like anything he’d ever seen walk the earth or grow out of it. Walraven led the way and perhaps it was the shivering flame of the torch that strangely elongated and animated his shadow, but where it fell on Imre, it felt heavy like a hand.

The tunnel opened up into a round grotto. Around a lake in the middle sat small, silver flowers shining like stars in the dark.

“How does anything grow in here? Is there sunlight?”

Imre craned his neck, but he could not see the ceiling. However, it had been a clear, moonlit night. If there were holes in the walls, the darkness would have been broken.

“They are quite different, these plants.”

Walraven placed his torch in a mount on the wall above a crude stone altar at the back of the cave. Blind eyes of a statue he didn’t recognise, but that seemed to be of some higher being, anyway, stared up from it at Imre. He was so mesmerised by them for a moment that he didn’t notice Walraven walking into the shadows. There was a quiet rustle and when he returned, he carried some of the bright, silky-looking blossoms in his hand. They really did seem to have a ghostly light shimmering from inside of them.

“Hold still,” Walraven ordered as he placed the flowers in his hair.

Imre broke out into nervous laughter.

“Don’t put flowers on a scarred-up soldier. Do the gods want to make fun of me?”

Walraven smiled.

“Through them, I am adept at seeing unexpected beauty,” he said softly, righting the seat of a flower. “But these will bind the spirits to you, too, and how else could you be with a Sage?”

Imre snapped his mouth shut, glowering at Walraven, who always knew too easily how to find his pressure points. All this talk of spirits was maddening. Walraven smiled mischievously.

“Fine,” Imre said, reaching up to brush his finger against the petals.

“I am not simply teasing. This is more than a promise made before a wishing stone, or even a country Sage. This bond will not be easily broken,” Walraven said with a note of warning in his voice.

Imre scoffed. It had been four years now, four years in which they’d held each others’ lives and the country’s fate in hand. He feared the spirits, but he did not fear the commitment.

“This bond was never going to be easily broken,” he answered, offering his hands again.

This time, Walraven took them.

“By the powers granted to me by the gods and those that came before them, I seal my bond with General Imre, who has come here to show his respects to you.”

Imre wanted to answer with the customary agreement, but then the air around them shivered and grew very still, unbreathable, before suddenly rushing back in. Imre gasped out. When he looked at Walraven, his face seemed almost skeletal for a moment and shone with the same starlight as the flowers, ageless, inhuman, before it settled into its former features.

His heart thundered as Walraven leaned forward to kiss him, but he didn’t think for a second to turn his head away.

“That is all the witnesses we’re allowed for now,” Walraven said with a touch of melancholy and smiled at him. “The most important ones, of course.”

Imre nodded his head. If he won the war then perhaps he would eventually get to kiss Walraven outside where the sun could reach them and the High Sage’s smile might be brighter. Imre tucked the thought away like a keepsake to remind himself he could not fail as he squeezed his husband’s hands.


End file.
